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Posted Mon May 5th, 2008 4:45am Post subject: Poetry
Dear Mr. Fry,

A poem for you, dedicated to Oscar Wilde


A poem dedicated to the virtuoso of passion and words

Written for Stephen Fry

By James Finch

Does the handsome figure of the devil reside in the deep places of the earth
Does he look up at Heaven, where dost God reside in his splendour,
And his mirth… does it not wander to and froe between man and man
Do the angels and saints regard us with envious eyes, as to angels and saints
We give birth

Does Pan and as well all his nymphs and fauns not lull us with eyes and tune
And are there not three goddesses sitting on three thrones dictating,
Our fate and our doom; for every man does destroy the thing he loves most
Because his wonders do wander on it far too much, even with … how without!
A ghost in his room

Or is it man, who is above and below and in every thing in the wide world
Man who giveth life and death, who causeth pain and pleasure and memory begets
In great measures; are we not little gods too
Standing on the firmament of the earth, bending the forces of the universe
Using blood and gold

Everything is here on one straight line; light and dark and death and life
Drunkenness, jest and youth, knowledge and wisdom and wit saline
So many choices and not enough time... knowing this can be a strife
When a thing of beauty comes along, and fills up all your eyes
And debases your deepest mind

For how long can a man breath the fair scent and be tickled by the rose
When he longs for the thorn to prick his side, to see his own blood,
To know that he is alive… He must suffer to know true pleasure
He must feel the grip of loneliness, he must sniff the stench of death
While all the while he strikes a pose

As if he does not smell it in his nose, as if he does not feel the tick of every second
And so he grows, ever more longing, ever more bloody smitten by it;
Of his emotions he can chooseth not, be this fact not ne’er forgot
Lest the royal colour in his veins be utterly muddy, useless and shit
When in front of all proper propriety

Let him go with it, let him surrender to it, let him be swollen with it
Let him not, however, be consumed by it, rather let him consume it and be sick,
Dilated with never-ending giving, sore with taking let him be, let him be
From on high let him view the little people, from far below let him look up their pants!
Let him be, candid and frivolous with it

Those with eyes to see, with nose to smell and fingers to touch you must know it
Taste the air with your mouth, hear the wind in your ears and think thoughts divine,
And know it not in parts or less than completely, make it thine and let it have thee
Let it come close so you can smell it, let it come closer so you can feel it,
Let it come closer still so you can taste it

Eat of it heartily, drink of it and let it fill you up

For if you cannot do thy will you do nothing, thy works will be a spider’s shed skin,
But a shell, lifeless and without colour, lacking though not in form
If you will not be yourself, noone will remember you but the one who you made to be
Is to parrot and continue, do you think, the reason you were born
Or to create and begin

It stands to reason anyway, that each man should go his way
And if two should happen to cross, most often a meeting is ignored and lost
Let them rejoice and be merry, let them be happy and gay,
Let them meet on and island in the turbulent waters, whereby others are tossed
Let the walls be still, let the music play

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